Anthem for the American Teenager
by LoveKricket
Summary: Kurt transferred to Dalton, and everything is going... alright. That is, until a familiar face turns up and turns everything on a tilt.
1. One Step Ahead of the Game

**Hey Ya'll. Long time no see. This ideas been nibbling at me for a while, but I got distracted with finals, so it never got written, that is, until now. And this is what came out. I hope it's enjoyed, and it should be followed by the next chapter relatively quickly. One other thing you should know, I've never been on a plane, I've never even been in an airport. I know, pathetic, right? I plan on going this summer, just to say I did. Haha, well I've heard the coffee's decent. So my apologies if I got anything wrong. It would mean a lot to me if you reviewed. :D**

**I don't own anything, not Glee, not the plane, not even the music I was listening to as I wrote this... **_**thing**_**. **

**Anthem for the American Teenager**

**Chapter One: One Step Ahead of the Game**

A crowd moved slowly through the windowed hallway, hesitant to reach the end. An old woman with a walking cane stopped in the crowd, shuffling to the side to stare down the long, black, extension with nothing more than fear in her old brown eyes. Seeing this, a young boy, face perfectly smooth, sandy blond hair sticking up in that careless infant way, clutched closer to his fathers neck, burying his moist green eyes into the crook of the shoulder. His older sister, blond pigtails bobbing with each step, squished to her father's leg and clutched a colouring book closer to her tiny frame. A man, more of a young boy, two steps behind the family, let out a quiet sigh, wanted nothing more to reach forward and reassure the neglected child that it would be fine.

His forest green carry-on thumped in time to the side of his leg. His black hair had grown out over the six months away from home, piling freely to the top of his tanned forehead, a mass of tight curls. The black and red checkered shirt swished loosely from his broad shoulders; the dark blue jeans did little for his tall frame.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the crowd peeled to a stop, organizing into a hectic line. He was cut off by a group of short Asians, the tallest barely tall enough to brush his shoulders, but he didn't bother to say anything as the five of them butted him. He shuffled his red Nikes ahead with everyone, pausing as the group ahead of them dug through their pockets, and when it was finally his turn, the lady took it happily and ushered him to the white door.

A fracture between the hallway's wall, and the wall to which the door stood against, allowed for a slight breeze. He chanced a look down, gulping as the grass waved in the wind, watched as a leaf slowly fell the seven feet to the ground, being whisked away before it had a chance to land. Forcing himself to look away from the ground, he surged forward and shuffled through the door, ducking his head.

He looked down at the slip of paper in his hand, hard and worn, and glanced up to look down the aisle. A few people, ones who had entered and found there seats, glanced at his, as if to say, 'will you sit with me?' He walked past the people, keeping his eyes to the overhead compartments, glad to find his numbers, his seat at the back, pressed tightly to the wall that would, presumptuously, lead towards the stewardess quarters.

His designated, plush, chair was beside the small panel of a window. He did not like the thought of that, but it was much too late to do anything about that, and he should just be thankful that he had gotten a ticket at all. He slowly reached above his head to pull the door up, and shoved his bag inside, it hardly took up the half of the room he was granted.

Stifling a sigh, he slid over to his appointed seat, sat deeply into the ugly cushion and pulled the thick cord over his lean torso. Keeping his eyes trained on the simple weave of the seat before him, he missed his neighbor's arrival, jumping slightly when he was greeted with a hearty hello.

Rather than risk a nervous croak, he simply nodded, glancing out of the corner of his eye to the richly dressed business man. Black Giovanni suit, a simple but classy red tie, the coat slung over the young arm – the man couldn't be much older than twenty, not much older than the boy. A pair of sturdy black rimmed glasses sat deep on a perfectly straight nose, glazing over the sparkling green eyes.

Realizing he was staring, and that the man new he was staring, he looked sharply back to the seat before him, fighting a blush. His seat rocked ever so slightly as the business man sat next to him, placing a briefcase on the floor next to his crisp dress shoes, and folding the coat over his knees.

A few minutes later, a stewardess walked out from the drapes next to his seat, walked halfway up the aisle, greeted them heartedly and proceeded to show them the exact procedure for buckling the seatbelts. Almost like he hadn't spent hours on the internet, researching safety features for a plane.

No words were offered as the men waited, one patiently, the other, not. The jeaned leg juggled up and down, the dark lip was bit in anticipation. It took much to long for the plane to roar to life, and when it finally did, the boy wished it hadn't. He couldn't help but look as the ground slowly rushed away from them; the grasses blurred together in a dry green sea; the large building fell quickly behind.

As did the ground. His finger tightened around the armrest once again, his heart jumped to his throat. And yet, he couldn't peel his dark eyes from the city falling behind him. Swallowing heavily, he attempted to look away from the sight, his stomach rolling in his gut. He was saved from the awful sight of the earth falling away, as his neighbor snapped the window shield shut.

X x X x X x X x X x X

A knock came to the deep burgundy wood, breaking the teenager's attention. He looked quickly from the white grains of the computer screen to the bedroom door, wincing as his neck knotted together. Raising a slim hand, he massaged his neck and called a hasty enter. A smile, one that did not quite reach his eyes, took over his face almost immediately.

The door creaked open and a strict-haired boy stuck his head in, eyes shining with mirth and fun, "Come on, David started a snowball fight!"

"I don't know Blaine," the boy said, turning back to his computer screen, pulled the cursor over to the refresh and frowning when no new messages appeared.

The elder boy sighed and entered the room, crossing the white shag carpet and folding himself neatly onto the blue comforter. He clasped his hand over the beige track pants and cast a slight frown, "What's wrong, Kurt? Usually you're up for their shenanigans."

"Not when my new Uggs are in jeopardy. Besides that, it's freezing out," the boy, Kurt, crossed his hands over his knitted sweater, proof of just how cold it had gotten. He watched the other boy, across from him and smoothing the blankets with calm hands, before looking back at the screen. "You go have fun."

"Kurt? What's _really _bothering you?"

The boy ran a hand over the keyboard, feeling the occasional bump of brail. He had always wanted to learn brail. To be able to read- to see-without having to depict letters, words. Everything would be so simple if people could understand without having to depict. He stared at the 'M', just under his index finger, and looked up to his friend, the friend he would do just about anything for. The friend he had never lied to, "I'm just tired," until now.

Bed springs groaned as the shorter boy stood, his charming smile back and place and making the others heart flutter deep within his chest. Kurt looked sharply back at the screen, biting his lower lip when the door clicked loudly shut. Listening for any indication of it opening once again, and hearing nothing, he pressed his finger pad gently against the letter.

Almost immediately, a list of emails popped up, each one starting with the same address, the same name. Kurt stroked the key pad, watching as the list extended, stretched downwards, rolled upwards. The times grew farther and father behind, dating as far back as May, of the year before. All together, the inbox was almost completely full, one-hundred and fifty-three emails. One email for everyday of the last five months. The last communication being from eight days ago.

And _that's_ what worried him.

Not a lack of sleep, not the fact that the classes at Dalton were that much harder than the ones at McKinley, a private school verses a public school. It wasn't even the fact that he was working against his first crush since the Finn fiasco, only this time, it might actually be reciprocated. No, he was loosing sleep, getting worried that his friend, one of his closest friends, hadn't replied to the seventeen emails he sent out. Seventeen ignored emails, twenty one ignored text messages, five ignored calls to the home phone, and eight more, ignored, to the cell.

X x X x X x X x X x X

The rubber wheels squeaked onto the pavement, spouting up a loose rocks and slight dust, harder than completely necessary. The boy clutched to the grey plastic, his wide nail biting into the scales. His deep brown eyes were hidden behind a wall of thin, light, lashes. The man beside him chuckled a bit, having learnt the boys deep fear of planes. Every bump in the air, each time someone yelped – just from the headphones being to loud – the boy would jump.

It was a good five minutes before he dared open his eyes, biting the inner of his check, and offering a goofy smile to his new acquaintance. If that's what they were; a five and a half hour flight of having nothing better to do than talk, left them fairly close - for complete strangers.

The man tapped the still white-knuckled hand, grinning ear to ear and stooping into the aisle. He passed the carry on down, before grabbing his own and following the steady stream of people out of the aircraft. The boy followed slowly, shuffling behind the crowd and nodding to the friendly pilot, who offered him a wide, welcoming grin.

He walked up the steady ramp, smiling softly as a little girl raced by and into the arms of an older man, graying hair bobbing as he scooped her into his arms and swung her in a slow circle. The man ahead of him paused briefly, but made no time in heading towards the luggage carousel.

They stood there for a time, alternating from watching the luggage to the greetings around them. The boy bounced on his heels, a nervous habit, before lunging forward and grabbing the red and white duffle bag, his fingers brushing over the handle as it was quickly carried away.

He returned to his companion, hunching his shoulders at the man's hearty laugh, but offering a tip of the head. He watched the rough carpet move around in a steady circle, slowly diminishing too few bags. The red peeked around the corner, as a large black sack landed atop it. He laughed and grabbed both, recognizing the purple and green unicorn the man had described previously.

Handing the black bag off with a smile, a goodbye, he headed towards the glass sliding doors, flagging down a yellow and black checkered taxi easily, and ducked into the back seat with a grin and a destination.

"Lima, Ohio."


	2. Two for the Price of One

**I'm B-b-b-b-b-b-b-ack! Sorry, school and work has become unexpectedly difficult. I hope to have another ready for Monday... possibly earlier... also... i dont have time to review it.. (as its now 1am and i have to be up in 5 hours...) so i hope everythings in order**

**AdamPascalFan: firstly, know that I squealed like a little girl when I saw the review. Mostly because, thanks to you, Katt is my favorite pairing, like ever. And secondly, it was so nice ^.^ I hope this lived up to any and all expectations. **

**Spookykat: thank you! All I know about airports comes from Snakes on a Plane; Flight 93, so my view on them might be a bit... bias. Thanks so much for your review! It made me so so happy! I'm glad you're enjoying it so much! And everything (should) come out with time. :D**

**As always, review.**

**On those happy notes, I shall almost end my notes. I don't own Glee, the characters, McKinley high, the choir room, the football jerseys... you get the idea. **

_**Infinity is often thought to be gay, but since it is both even and odd at the same time, it is really a hermaphrodite and technically doesn't count. **_

**Anthem for the American Teenager**

**Chapter Two: Two for the Price of One**

A thickly woven yellow blanket sat heavily over a thinner baby blue quilt, both crumpled and creased under the weight of the thick, black and red duffle. The light green curtains waved slightly in the cool autumn breeze of the recently opened window. The fine layer of dust that had been momentarily disturbed had settled back on the belongings.

The air settled thick and cool to the material of the bag, the bed, the burgundy red shag carpet, and the red and white letterman jacket that hung from the closed door. Mathew James Rutherford had wasted no time between the cab ride, throwing his things into his old bedroom, and racing off in his dark green Cherokee Classic to his old school.

The parking lot, surrounded by plenty of pine trees, and the odd maple, branches plucked of the golden leaves, was just as he remembered it. Which, considering the mood, worked in his favor.

He took a moment to collect himself, shaking the first day of school feelings from deep within his chest. Parking in his usual spot, surprised it was open on a Thursday afternoon; he stared at the white metal doors of his school. Biting a lip, he tucked the beaten wooden fish that served as a keychain deep into his front pocket, and strutted through the parking lot.

Passing the painted black dumpster, he paused. This is where he and his best friend, Michael Allan Chang, had opposed to the daily dumpster tosses. It was there that they had received their first black eyes and learnt there 'place' on the schools food chain. Under the green plastic lid is where they had helped the first poor soul out, once there team had headed into the school. He had stood right at this spot, a foot away from the peeling paint, as the boy brushed himself off, ran a finger through his hair, collected the various text books he had obviously been carrying, prior to the attack, and flounced off.

A smile tugged at his lips, and he turned back towards the school, leaving his junior self behind. He pulled open the doors, listening to the squeak of rust that had always been there, and would always be there, and looking back outside. The parking lot being split up by the criss-cross of metal between two sheets of glass that had made the educational institution feel much more of a jail than a school.

New Directions' choir room was the fifth door along the hallway that he now stood in, the door had been painted a bright blue that in no means went with the dirty floor, nor the dab green lockers. And beyond that door, down the physical education hallway, was the auditorium, where Rachel Berry was most likely giving yet _another_ stunning performance. Matt turned down a hallway, leaving the blue door behind as his heels clicked against the linoleum.

Peripheral vision was a funny thing. It makes you see things that aren't really there. Or, rather, makes you _think_ you see things that aren't really there. For instance, the large group of hooligans that included him and eleven others, each smiling wide for the camera, was not actually there.

The large group photograph of seventeen young men on the McKinley High football team _was_ there. Matt, having paused in the middle of the hall, turned to face it, and his head tipped slightly to the side. He didn't remember posing for that one. But he had to of, because he was kneeling front and center, his shoulders wide and brushing against Puckermans. The red number shone out from the clean white material. A red beacon, shining as a large 59. So, either he had somehow made it through a single game without being tackled, or coach had made them wash their uniforms.

Honestly, he was leaning towards the second, because even Finn's was free of grass stains. 54 shone from his chest partially blocked from the helmet that rested against his knee, but he new the number better than his mailing address. It was the number his uncle had yelled at him over, the one that his parents disagreed with, even when he insisted nine months ago. Why they couldn't just accept it - him - was beyond even his vast knowledge.

Turning on his heel, he headed down towards quieter, cleaner part of the school. One very few people entered. The art room sat under a small flight of stairs, and through the large glass display. He offered a tiny wave to the teacher, who had turned, as if feeling one of her best student's eyes. Her old brown eyes popped out slightly behind the thick rimmed glasses, and she waved a pink colored brush in the air, startling as paint splattered onto her white canvas.

It was good to know, that among all of the students and teachers whom he had lived with for the first part of his life, that one never changed, one stayed the same, kept her promise to continue to inspire him. Mike, who went to Asian camp, even after they had spent years making fun of it; Santana, who had promised they would keep in touch, even if they couldn't _touch_, but hadn't replied to his very first email; his parents, who had promised to love him no matter what, but had split apart when his father couldn't handle the pressure of having a son like him, not in a town like this.

Even the classroom had shrunk, he scanned five, maybe six, heads, bent over tedious perfection, before he turned and trotted up a larger stair case. Seven stairs from the top, a familiar sight came into view. Long lockers, roof to floor, a mixture of forest green and light blue, lined both sides of the short hallway. There were no classes on this level, only lockers. Lockers that had become the best part of his mornings.

Mike's locker, 67, in the same condition it had always been. A dent in the top corner where an unsuspecting freshman had crashed; a white shoelace that hung from the bottom, caught in the tiny grates in the metals structure. Though Matt supposed his friend no longer resided in this cubby, as they were assigned a new one every year.

And beside that, the same as he had left it, sat Matt's locker. The small black plastic numbers had been ripped of and replaced with a carefully brushed 8. The paint was still perfectly smooth; as he had taken care to re-paint it after it had 'accidently' been sprayed with red letters.

Accidently sprayed with a residue from the angry red letters that had taken up the majority of 69's locker. In his mind eye, Matt could see where he had knelt on the cold floor, a very gentleman's behavior, for it had been dirty at the time. There he and the boy from the dumpster had labored an hour after school to get the three nasty, cruel, angry, letters off.

X x X x X x X x X x X

Wood rocked between two slim fingers as the time slowly ticked by. The quickest, red hand slowly turned around the clock, passing the black one that deemed it to be quarter to three. Fifteen minutes until Warblers practice and an hour after that until he could once again check his email.

Kurt kept his eyes trained front and center, nodding once and a while before looking down at his paper to keep the teacher from calling on him. He raised the pink rubber to his mouth, biting on the eraser as impatient manner called. The yellow paint from the pencil had been chipped away, leaving dents and curves in the wood where he had bitten down.

Two thick fingers flicked his elbow, and he looked into the laughing eyes of his neighbor, a playfully furious frown creasing between his thick eyebrows. Kurt offered a shy smile, glancing away from the warm honey eyes that had him blushing under their gaze.

All around him, papers were turned in the thick green textbook. Kurt quickly flipped to the page the teacher had assigned to be due the next day, three calculus questions, before biting back a chuckle. As luck would have it, it was the page that meant the very most to him. A number that he had laughed many times over. How he hadn't noticed it the night before...

_A white paper with folded edges, landed on his desk, and he looked sharply behind him. He had thought that, it being in the shape of a football, or what was meant to be one, would be from one of the Neanderthals that had somehow made it into his advanced math class. He had thought that, but had forgotten who was taking the class with him. _

_The other offered a smile and a quick nod of the head before bending to pull another piece of parchment out, one without the holes ripped out. Kurt glanced at there teacher, a balding, heavy set man who never noticed when the girls passed notes and the boys talked under their breath. Seeing that the teachers attention was fully focused on how long until lunch break, when he could go eat the many sandwiches he had stalked away, he flipped open the note. _

_In Matt's tidy, and at the same time messy, writing was the page number. The page that had been assigned until the over head bell sounded, and then for homework, and the last question on that page. How Mathew, a football player, broke the stereotype so easily Kurt only wished he knew. _

_Grabbing the pencil, deep and rough with teeth imprints, he quickly worked out the problem and scribbled the answer down beside the question. Glancing around, to ensure that no one would see the two conversing, he tossed the paper back, taking care to fold it in the shape of a flower. _

_Behind him, a hearty laugh sounded. One that should not be heard in an otherwise quiet math class. The teacher glasses quickly up, glaring at the student, who quickly apologized with his deep, colorful voice. _

_When the class turned back to there desks, bored with the interruption, Kurt cast a frantic 'be-quiet' and 'what's-your-problem look over his shoulder'. Seeing it, Matt coughed and hunched over the paper, looking, to Kurt, what could have easily been a thousand word essay onto the unfolded flower. _

_As it landed on the fold of the text book, Kurt grabbed it and unfolded it to see a series of numbers written beside his answer. _

**Page 69, question 3. **

_Ans: 5. _

**Seriously, dude? 69, 3, 5, and for the record, I got 54**

_Kurt looked from the note to his book, and back to his page full of calculations. Trying to understand where he had gone wrong, to get 5, when Matt had gotten 54. It made no sense, however, as he found no flaws in his work. He passed the paper back, a large question mark visible through the back. _

_He stood as the bell rang, hanging his bag over a slim shoulder and gather a bright blue binder and the green text book in his arms. Kicking in the chair, a rough shoulder came in contact with his elbow, causing the books to drop back to the wooden desk. Kurt glanced quickly up, catching the wink and the wolfish grin that Matt threw his way. _

_Hiding a confused frown, he re-gathered the books and flounced out of the math room, leaving the teacher, and his half eaten sandwich, behind. Only latter, when he was home in the sanctuary of his room, as he looked through his jackets pockets for a stick of spearmint gum, did he find it. _

_The note that he was sure he would never get back, the one that he was sure Matt had taken with him out of the class. And, only as he read it over the red quilt of his blanket, did he laugh out loud, reading the quick and messy writing._

**The smallest gay number is 5. 3 has a reputation for being gay, but is in fact only slightly queer after a six-pack or two. 1 and 0 are bi-curious. 69 is, however, a very, very gay number. **

_As he slowly sobered up, the garage door sounded open, and heavy, steel-toed boots clicked against the wooden floor above him. His father's voice called down the stairs, and he pounced off the bed and raced up the stairs. The note, left but never forgotten, and to be found latter that summer, slowly fluttered down. The question mark, having been written atop of a hundred or so pages, was thick and angry and quick. The back side of the paper, where the mark had been etched in, shone in the yellow glow of the lap, along with a continuation of the note. A small, cursive, bold finale._

**54 claims to be "just experimenting." **


	3. Three White Lies

**Sorry I lied to yall. I caught a nasty case of stomach flu sunday, than I stayed up to watch Glee (friggen amazing!) which may or may not of helped out. Either way, I spent my day next to my ugly porcelain toilet. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. But, I got it written up, which is super great, I guess. Even though I'm pretty sure it's the worst mumbo-jumbo I've written. I only hope I don't loose any readers because I **_**promise**_** the next chapter will be much better.**

**Oh, I'm also not revising, because I want to get (calculating...) Four hours of sleep before the VALENTINES DAY EPISODE! YAY! Anyone else excited as I am? I've been looking forward to all relationships crashing and burning in one episode ALL MONTH! (catching the sarcasm?) hopefully we were miss lead...**

**The splurts are kind random, and super short, and may not make much sense, but I hope it suffices for the day. :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, but I am super excited for the episode tonight! Though I am scared for the Gaine. **

**Anthem for the American Teenager**

**Chapter Three: Three White Lies**

Above his styled head, the large brass bell sounded, shaking the boy from his thoughts. Around him, people stood, sliding the books of the edge of their desks and into the arms before heading into the warm Dalton hallways.

Following suit, Kurt gathered his books and headed towards the door. At Dalton, where they had no lockers, but rather large wooden desks in their dormitories, there was no need for him to haul around his Dolce and Gabbana book bag. Which, to be honest, was quite the relief.

He had shown it much to wear and tear at McKinley for a designer bag of its stature, it deserved a break. Especially because it was his _only_ designer bag. You might think that a co-ownership at a garage earned a lot of money. But it most certainly did not. The stack of designer catalogues, pages marked with bright pink post-its, coats, pants, shoes, socks, all circled in thick red marker, hidden in the back of his closet. Would probably never be bought. He wouldn't need them when he was high and mighty at the top of the designer's world anyways, what with his own clothing line.

"Hey? Kurt? You coming, or are you going to stand there all day?"

Shaking himself from his dream, or rather, future, Kurt strode to the front of the room, waving a cheerful good bye to there professor. Yes, you heard right, _professor_. They were very _it_ at Dalton.

Weaving and merging with the mass of students that Dalton held, he accompanied Blaine towards the other side of the school, where they, like clockwork, would join with Blaine's best friends, David and Wes, drop their books off and get there new ones from their rooms. Chemistry for Wes and Blaine, which would bring for humorous stories later that night and disaster for which ever lab table they had been assigned to. Politics for David, who would make for the next Obama, even if he claimed otherwise. And French for Kurt, who had _not_ finished his verb homework.

X x X x X x X x X x X

After the art room, the parking lot, the lockers, the unsuspected football display, the last place on his mental to-do list was the choir room. In a way, all the others stops were steps leading up to this one rom. The empty hallways were a way to calm a racing, nervous, heart. The pictures, the lockers, a way to mentally prepare himself. And now, there was nothing to stop him from taking the eighteen steps to the open blue door.

Eighteen steps. Eighteen different scenarios. Maybe they weren't there, but out on a fieldtrip. Maybe Mike had tipped off the rest of the gang. He would be a liar if the thought of Rachel being a cannibal zombie hadn't (very briefly) crossed his mind.

Eighteen agonizing steps and he never imagined of this one. Leaning against the blue paint, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyebrows raised to the hairline of his curls. A tight smile played on his lips as six of the eighteen seconds past. One minute, forty-eight seconds before Tina had spun on her heel playfully and tottered as his white smile registered in her mind.

Rachel, zeroing in on the performance, or lack there of, turned sharply towards her frozen, Asian, counterpart. Matt let off a low, deep chuckle as Rachel's astonished gasp filled the room. It wasn't long there after that the entire room had turned to him, rushing forward with happy hoots.

It was strange, that out of all the scenarios he had imagined, this was not one of them. But, this was the one he wanted.

He was never one of New Directions most outspoken members. He didn't even grant himself the title of one of there favorite members. He was an okay singer, no candle to Quinn's flame, not as colorful as Mercedes or Santana's, not as _gay_ as Kurt's. His dancing skills were adequate, more than adequate on a good day, but nothing compared to Mike's or even Brittany's. He could play a mean keyboard, but compared to Noah's and Artie's mad guitar skills, it might as well be Little Tykes.

But damn it if they didn't make him feel loved.

X x X x X x X x X x X

To say the least, French class was spent in the same worried, dizzied state as his morning class. Only this time, the teacher would call on him every once and a while, when he would mumble a reply. Most of the time, correctly, much to the teacher's dismay. Something about punishing late and unfinished homework set the teachers blood pumping. Mr. Rousseau liked to punish people that way, glaring when the student got the answer correctly, like it was some ultimate crime to both be handing in un-complete homework, but knowing all the right terms, verbs, adjectives, names, all the same.

Kurt had taken the few notes at the beginning of class, his writing getting sloppier and larger as the mumbo-jumbo worked its way down the page. Mindless copying. That was all it was, see the words, and write the words. No brain functions in between the two. Like a robot. Which would be sort of cool, if he had the vast knowledge about useless things that robots in the movies seemed to have.

Surely, _surely_¸ a robot would only have to think once, and for the briefest of seconds before deeming a flight to Atlanta both timely, and costly. And if a robot deemed it a horrible idea, why could he seem to get it out of his mind.

What was the worst that could happen? He would show up at the Rutherford's door, which, by the way, he had no idea where they were living, and what? Ask for forgiveness? Like he had done something wrong?

No, the fault was all Matt's. It wasn't _his_ burden the seemingly brainless friend of a chimp didn't understand the complexities of picking up one in eight or nine phone calls. It wasn't like Kurt was willing him to become other wised involved and thusly slow to react to the emails, the text messages, the phone calls. It wasn't Kurt's fault that Matt had seemingly found the balls to talk to one of his classmates. Make a friend here or there. Not that he ever mentioned making a friend or two.

Not that Kurt ever mentioned moving to Dalton, or meeting the seemingly love of his life, falling into another crush he wasn't even sure he could go through with. To face the facts, he hadn't been excruciatingly truthful after the Karofsky incident.

It wasn't Mathews fault that he hadn't caught the subtle hints that, no, life in Lima had become to stressful. That, yes, he had transferred schools, though from fearing Dave Karofsky, or simply wanting to be within talking distance of Blaine, he hadn't decided yet.

What if Mike had told his best friend about transferring? Could that be the reason he wasn't replying to anything? Hurt that they had once been thought of as close friends, and yet Kurt couldn't tell him anything about his new life.

He was running in a dead-end maze.

X x X x X x X x X x X

For an hour or two, he walked about apparently in a dream state, but really absorbed in speculation and calculation. He did not want to act hastily, to do anything he might afterwards regret. But it was during the still hours of dust, when he lay awake on the yellow, scratchy quilt, revolving plans in his mind to the correct approach.

He mulled over the information he had collected over the night, quite subtly, without giving himself away.

-Kurt had indeed told him the truth, when he wrote about winning sectionals.

-However, he hadn't won with New Directions, which he was led to believe.

-Karofsky had bullied him, kissed him, or as Matt liked to call it, assaulted him.

-Kurt didn't tell anyone about this locker room occurrence, which led Matt to believe that he hadn't told anyone about it.

-But than, what was it Mercedes had said, something about pink glasses and fancy scarves? He couldn't be sure, over the music blasting from the bowling speakers, but he was sure it was about a _boy_ and his new school.

Why hadn't Kurt just told him about this new school, instead of leading him on to believe that he still attended McKinley, that he walked calmly past Dave everyday, without turning his nose or narrowing his eyes. All very impressive, had it been true.

With these thoughts winding through his head, Mathew Rutherford, on his first day back to his hometown, in the bed that would always be a comforts, the hall light shining through as his mother hummed around the kitchen, preparing herself a dinner, having just gotten back, fell into an restless sleep.

X x X x X x X x X x X

Kurt Hummel: a secret hero. The Lone Ranger. If the stakes ever became high enough – if the evil were evil enough, if the good were good enough – he would simply tap the reservoirs of courage that had been accumulating deep within his chest over the weeks. Courage, he seemed to think, came to him in minuscule quantities. It dispended with all those bothersome little acts of daily courage; it offered hope and grace to the repetitive cowards; it justified the past with burdening the future.

This was one of those times. He didn't need the courage to stand up to Karofsky, before or after. It wasn't the same courage as telling his friends he was leaving. Facing Mercedes and Finn, watching the pain, the misunderstanding, flash across there eyes.

No, this type of courage was something totally different. The kind you needed when you were immensely joyful, and yet, you could help to think that karma had come to bite you in the butt. The kind of courage you needed to be welcoming, like when you grandparents came for dinner and you had to remember not to bring up cholesterol, or the French Revolution. The kind of courage you needed to face up to your lie.

Well, not so much that he had _lied_, per say, but he hadn't necessarily tell the whole truth.

Which was probably the reason the young man in front of his dorm door was displaying both extraordinarily high spirits _and_ pent up anger. David paused just ahead of him, confused for he had not acknowledged the tall male half a hallway ahead of them. Kurt imagined he had asked him what was wrong, David usually caught little things quickly, noticed the startled glaze over his steel blue eyes. The steel blue eyes that locked over the steadily moving crowd. Dark brown hair grown out, curling over deep brown eyes that had his heart racing.


	4. Only got Four minutes

**TO-DA!**

**My latest work of art. If you can call it that. :P Thanks for all your support! Every time I read your reviews I glow. No joke. I got yelled at when I got AdamPascals while we were watching Harry Potter. (get it? 'Cause your not allowed light in the theater... and I glow? Hahahaha. Good one, kricket!)so do review again! Lals. I went to RENT last night. It was funtabulous. Epicosity at its greatest. Anyways. So I was in bed by at 1:38, which is late, for me anyways. But, I have to work the morning, so I shall quickly over-view, but hopefully nothing serious. **

**Before I can write this, I have to say something.**

**How AMAZING was the v-day episode? I went in completely ready to never, ever (evereverever) go in the Gap again, and I came out wanting to re-watch it again (and again and again). Also, poor Santana. I love her. And I seen some Wantana (?) going on there to. That be cute... but I'm not looking forward to this weeks. Can't say I love the beaver all that much. And I'm Canadian, eh, so uh, I should. But I don't.**

**Oh, I forgot what I was originally going to say... shit...**

**I don't own glee. At all. In any content. But id love to, if anyones thinking of a grad present! :D **

**Anthem for the American Teenager**

**Chapter Four: Only got Four minutes**

Somewhere, between the blue sky and the white bunny-rabbit clouds, a thin layer of grey grew. Larger and larger, bright blue overrun by dusty grey, grey cement to a glowing black, open windows of a Cherokee Classic allowing the passage for a few of the thick, slow droplets.

The thick pitter-patter of raindrops drummed against the dark green paint, turning it to a deep forest green, rolling slowly up the wide front, splattering in a wild array of clear art. The fingers of rain crawled away from the wind-shield, running over the edge and clinging to the tan brown hand that wove through the jungle of rain droplets.

The freshness of the water was a relief against the flush skin. A sort of calmness to the heart of a stampede; a coolness to the roar of a fire. Before long, the arm was drenched, the thick droplets spread thin in the velocity, clinging to the fine hair, giving a summer-like glow.

Pulling his arm back in, Matt used a stiff finger to roll the window up, watching as the glass drew out of the wet rubber. The rain drops quickly invaded the dry window, splattering a flying towards the back, leaving streaks of tears.

The music pulsed through the expensive stereo his mother bought him as a coming out/home present. Well, she had purchased it before he had left, a way to tell him that, yes, she indeed did love him, even if he was gay, or bi, or whatever he was, but than he left. It was there way, a stereo for coming out; a handmade, white-table-cloth dinner for her acceptance at Lima Memorial; a slab of bills for a new pair of dress shoes for going Glee club. Little gifts, here or there, to so support, rather than words, he wasn't so great with words.

The metal shone, reflecting the tan leather interior, the green numbers of the clock. They reeled from the thick 4 to a soft 3. The rain against the road melted away, with the pavement itself. His eyelids slipped shut, only for the briefest of seconds, and he opened them to a new sight.

_A woman, fire-truck red bathrobe wrapped around her waist, long black hair frizzed out and pulled back in a messy bun. His bed room door slammed open as she rushed over and pulled the Toy Story blankets off, uncovering his police-uniformed pajamas. He groped blindly towards her shoulders, startled out of sleep. _

"_Matty! Oh, Matty! You've got to hurry, we've got to go!" She gathered his tiny figure in her surprisingly strong arms, lifting him up high, against her shoulder. _

_Rubbing a dark eye, covered with the thick mat of curly hair, he clutched at her shoulder, feeling the sturdiness of a mother beneath the robe, "Mama! Mama, what's wrong?" He stuttered sleepily, trying to see through the blackness of light. _

_His mother juggled him lightly, swooping to grab the baby blanket from the bed and handing it to him. Her teeth sparkled in the early morning dark, "Nothing hun, I just gotta show you somethin'." _

"_Momma, is daddy coming?" Young Matt asked, watching in the light of a small lap as they traveled down the short hallway and into the living room. The light screamed against his eyelids, and he burrowed his forehead into the crook of her shoulder. _

"_Not this time, sweetheart."_

"_Momma, where are we goin'?"_

"_You'll see, you'll see," she replied, bending low. Matt clutched harder to her neck to avoid tumbling to the ground, and as she straightened she sealed the zippers on his red Hot Wheels running shoes, "You'll see." _

_He clutched to the blanket, bringing it up to his mouth to bite the corner, shivering at the cold summer air. The door slammed quietly behind them at the gentle touch, not that it mattered – his father slept like a freight train. _

_The darkness once again embraced them, as they ran across the green grasses over the back yard. Matt turned his head, looking up to the stars that shone so brightly against the velvet curtain. His papa had told him once that a man lived in the moon, and he felt sorry for this man, that the people always went away when he came out. _

_As they reached the end of their property, his mother slowed down the quick jog, murmuring his awake from his slight doze off. "Sweeties, we're here, come on." _

_Matt stumbled slightly as his feet touched the ground for the first time in hours, but it didn't matter much because his mother pulled him to the soft, dew dampened grass. Pulled his mass of hair against her arm and the blue blanket and he watched as the material parachuted over them, slowly fluttering down to cover him and a part of her red robe. _

_He looked up at the stars, smiling, still in a sleepy stupor. And as he watched those stars, winking down to him from there vast lives, a yellow streaked between two, a trail of white with feint blue following behind it. _

"_Did you see that, mama?" He asked excitedly, turning his plump cheeks to look at her with wonder, practically vibrating, sleep forgotten. _

_His mother's soft, gentle hand still over his forehead, pushing the coarse hair away from the forehead wrinkled with wonder. "Sure did sweetie. Look there's another one!" _

_Matt followed his mothers prompt, looking as a tail winked out of sight. "Mama, what are they? Is the sky falling?"_

"_It's a meteor shower, they're comets."_

"_What's a comet, mama?"_

"_Falling stars," she sighed, and hugged him closer as the chill crept into her bare feet. _

"_That's sad," he mumbled; wonder dropping from his twinkling eyes. They lay in silence, watching as star after star broke through the atmosphere. After a time, Matt rolled back to his mother, "Why are they falling, Mama?"_

_Taking her bottom lip between pearly white teeth, his mother pondered for a time over what to tell her baby, before remembering a tale her own mother had spun late one night, as she stood before a full length mirror, in a creamy white dress; "One day, there came a comet, it's mass of ice and dust, crushing homes and burning the people's plants and gardens," she paused when her son stiffened slightly beside her, but offered to complaint to the cruelty of stars, "After ashes and tears and shock and alarm, the people moved towards the comet with curiosity and temptation. They held hands and encircled the new arrival, holding a space for the unknown to become known, trusting each other, trusting time."_

_She paused, waiting for her son to question the maturity of the subject, but he waited patiently and quietly, as was the Rutherford way, for her to finish. With a smile as another meteor crossed the sky, she continued, knowing he only understood a half of what she was saying. "Some of the people said they should barricade the area and leave the comet alone. Some of the other wanted to touch and honor it, as it had come from the sky and was now part of the earth. The older couples wanted nothing to do with the cold rock, fearing what was so different."_

"_That's not very nice," Matt finally spoke, his childish voice breathing against her earlobe. "Just because he's different," his mother noticed how the lifeless stone had suddenly become male, and her heart panged shallowly in her chest. She had seen the scrape on his knees, and his palms, normal things for a young boy, but certainly the ripped blue-sequin overalls were not the work of falling of the monkey bars._

_Squeezing her precious, tiny, little, boy closer to herself, she started again, set to make him understand the cruelty of the world before he fell back into a dreamless slumber. "You're right, it wasn't very nice at all. The children wanted to make it a playground, imaging that they too, could travel across the universe at light speed and visit people in new lands. Share in it's magic."_

"_Like Buzz Lightyear, mama?" he chimed back in, clutching the fuzzy blanket to his chin, eyelids blinking slowly closed._

_Chuckling in a response, she continued, blinking back tears, "Just like Buzz. Ashamed at the confusion it had caused but still bewildered by its dramatic journey across the sky, the comet finally spoke. But no one understood its language." The stars twinkled again, as one of the last tails dipped over the inky blackness. Rolling to her side, she gathered her drowsing son in her arms once again and headed into the house, "They did not speak Comet."_

_Matt kicked his shoes off at the door, a frown working onto his face as they headed back up the hallway. Just as his mother pulled the thick Toy Story blanket tightly around his shoulders, he grabbed her wrist and rubbed his eye. "Mama?"_

"_Yes, Matty?"_

"_Did the comet live happily ever after? Like in Cinderella?" _

_Smiling, she nodded and re-tucked the blankets, running a hand through the matted curls and kissing his forehead, "Of course Matty. He flew back home, to the other little comets that loved him very, very much." And with that, as her son slipped into oblivion, she curled into the rocking chair in the corner, pulling a scrapbook onto her lap from the floor. _

_The old wood croaked as she rocked slowly, looking in the quiet light of the Jessie nightlight. The plastic pages scratched together as she flipped to the middle, where she stood with a tall, butch, black man in a black tux and white tie, and on her other side, a tiny boy, not a day over three, in a pink tie. She ran her calloused finger over the bride bouquet he clutched, over her white dress and over the ecstatic faces, and thought back to the sparkling blue trousers and the cowgirl nightlight. _

The loose gravel crunched under his ties, collecting in the tires. Two high pillars of burgundy and red bricks piled two-stories high beside him, towering between large metal gates.

Two paths diverged from the one road; one looked as though it lead to the back of the school and the other, to a side parking lot. Choosing the right side, the side towards the schools front doors, there were no signs that would suggest otherwise, and he could see an open spot from the gates.

The dark green paint jobs, the muddy tires and the rain streaks stood out in the sparkling lot of shiny new cars. The rain had yet to make it; he had somehow out drove the slow moving clouds. Even here, the light blue sky seemed to glow off the damp grill. The air was still with the coming storm, the bird's silent on the long branches.

He locked the door behind himself, as he slipped from the leather to the asphalt, his heels clicking against the hard rock. Pushing his hands into the pockets of his dark wash jeans, he inspected the expensive yard. Lush green grasses, deep blue and purple forget-me-nots, a stone fountain surrounded by pebble-made benches. His eyes glazed over the dark burgundy front doors, and sucked in a deep breath.

No, he would not back down. Yes, he was indecisive at times, but lately he wasn't so sure. He couldn't decide if it was in fact indecisiveness, or rather a simple case of waiting to make a decision until all sides were known and a safe and secure side was taken. The fact that he couldn't decide where he stood may contradict with himself.

But either way, he was going in there, and he was staying in there until he found Kurt. Or found someone who knew where Kurt was, or anything that resembled Kurt. Than again, it was a big school, and there were an awful lot of people. Maybe it would be better to catch him on the weekend...

No.

The breath is the switch between the conscious and the unconscious mind, he scolded himself. Just breathe. Let it all fall away. Everything would be fine. If he didn't find Kurt, Kurt would find him. It wasn't like he blended with the crowd.

They all wore navy burgundy with red trim and a classy ties. Today, most of them were wearing a light tan pants, most likely the cooler choice, if the desperate attempt at parachute-style said anything.

The few people in the hallway gave him peculiar looks, but for the most part, he ignored them, searching for any indication of a ... map, maybe? The map was the size of a large mall, you know, the ones that were hundreds of stores wide and had the big, posted, color-coordinated maps. But, it seemed unlikely, considering he was in a school, and he was in the middle of a large common area, with many doors that he assumed lead to even more.

Stifling a sigh, because it would only echo ten fold back to him, and chose a door at random. Or what he had assumed it was random, for in his mind, he spun in a slow circle and pointed a finger out to the wooden door ahead of him and stepped through the tall door frame.

It may have been less an act of randomness, and more of an act of fate. The doors that lines both sides of the seemingly never-ending hallway, each one holding a shining white board, each with colorful words or drawings. The first, with a bold B.A. in bright red; the sixth with a rough sketch of what looked to his careful eye to be a canary, but may in fact be a Warbler, if the rumors were true; a rainbow, rabbits, a leprechaun all in bright colors. A little ways down the door was painted a black, as was the white board, with only a shining silver 'W' thick to the length, like a super-hero symbol.

But, not one of them were blank, a few were small, interject symbols that he double taked at, but nothing that caught his eye. Until the blank one. A polar bear in a snow storm maybe, but it didn't look as though the black pen had ever been un-topped. The doorknob, unlike all the others, shone as though recently polished.

Smiling to himself, he leaned against the door frame, glancing at the large-faced watch on his right wrist, counting down the seconds he had timed out hours before. On his phone, sitting in the parking lot of McKinley as the new Directions danced out their Regional's set list.

"Five..."

"Four..."

"Three..."

"Two..."

X x X x X x X x X x X

"Matt?" he mumbled through dazed lips, heart racing under the dark blue blazer. The light white dress shirt suddenly felt much to warm. His striped tie felt much more like a hangman's nook, to tight around his throat, even his flashy yellow socks felt a stitch to tight around his feet. Or maybe it was the shoe laces on the size-too-small dress shoes. "Matt!"

He was taller, his hair was longer, but his face smiled faster, even though he only had a millisecond to glance at it before he locked his hands on his back. They embraced a stretch of a second to long, and someone cleared there throat next to them, awkwardly in the way of other bustling busy-bodies.

"Oh," he mumbled, blushing under the harsh hallway light. Kurt hoped that maybe, David wouldn't find is suspicious, "David, this is my friend Matt. Matt, this is David."

Matt shook his hand politely, but turned quickly back to Kurt, smiling broadly, although he tried to hold back, "But what are you doing here? Why haven't you replied or called me back, or messaged me? Matt!" He screeched once again, as his friend's calloused hand rested on his boney wrist.

"I think you'll find that your _car_ key doesn't fit in your _door_ lock," He had watched with amused eyes as his friend continued to ramble, waving his hands feverishly and motioning with the large, black-rubber topped, as he talked.

Kurt blushed once again, and Matt couldn't help but let out a low chuckle. David watched the exchange through clouded eyes, wary of the stranger that crumbled the icy walls of Kurt Hummel so easily. "Hey Kurt, I'm going to go change, are we still meeting for dinner? I think Wes already called in the pizza..."

"Oh sure," Kurt dismissed, finally pushing the door open, and ushering the other in, "We'll be here," he added before the door swung close and David stood outside, staring at the whiteboard and wondering what on earth had just happened.

Matt smiled and spun around the room, looking at the exquisite Victorian-era of the table top, bed posts, and wallpaper. "Wow, Kurt this is all very..." he paused, hoping the his friends would read his mind and supply him with a word. But Kurt offered no word, so he turned back to him and was surprised to find a whole different emotion played across his face.

Hurt.

"Oh Kurt, no no no. What's that look for?" He sunk into the chair with a sigh; parallel to wear Kurt had slowly sat on the bed, eyes down cast and frown burrowing between two perfect eyebrows.

It was a whole minute before he looked up, looked into those dark chocolate eyes that swam with understanding, and a hint of gold. "Matt, why didn't you just," his shoulders dropped farther, "just tell me."

His voice broke on the last word, and Matt was sure part of his heart did too. He resisted the urge to reach forward and grab his hand, but instead he crossed his legs and interlinked his fingers, "Tell you what, Kurt? That I was coming? It was supposed to be a surprise."

"No, oh, Matt, not that," Kurt sighed, stripping his blazer off and laid it on his bed, "I'm really glad you here, it really is a nice surprise."

Matt blinked slowly, rubbing his knee and shaking his head. He had suspected that Kurt would be angry, that Matt had ignored his persistent emails the week before. Or, best case scenario, extremely happy. Not hurt, he hadn't wanted hurt.

Kurt looked him square in the eyes, which was unnerving to say the least. He never knew what he would say when he met the vast sea of blue and sparkling green. "Why didn't you just _tell_ me you were _gay_?"


End file.
